


Heavensbloom

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley can't feel love, Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Dark Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hell isn't much better, I mean if you blink you'll miss it, M/M, Pining, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Sad Ending, Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Sex with Snake Form Crowley (Good Omens), Sort Of, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), You Have Been Warned, aftermath of torture (brief description), and he likes causing pain and strife, but it's there!, but you bet your sweet ass he'd do anything for his angel, crowley does not save himself for aziraphale, just an angel and a demon at camelot, so if that's a squick for you don't read, there's a glimmer of hope there if you squint, this is not my usual woobie crowley, torture (brief description)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: Crowley is hard at work infiltrating King Arthur's court, when he hears rumour of an enchanted weapon that will make the King near-invincible. Hell sends him to thwart a visiting scribe with vast knowledge of magical weapons, who turns out to be very familiar.Crowley has to stop the King. Aziraphale is destined to aid him. And neither is willing to thwart the other, because that would mean placing the most important person in their life at risk of dire consequences.Is there a way out of this prickly problem? Or are the stakes this time simply too high?This fic is complete and I'll post one chapter a day.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 62





	1. Wessex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entanglednow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/gifts).



> This is a gift for Entanglednow, as a thank you for the joy their fic has brought to my life. I've always been in awe of their heart-wrenching open-ended fics, and I hope I've done my love for those justice with this homage.
> 
> Biggest heartfelt thanks as always to [Mira Woros ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos)for outstandingly good beta work, especially when I'd told her it would be a one shot!! You all remember how Crowley from Aurency did his own thing? Well this one wanted multi chapters, so multi chapters he got!

Crowley was in a foul mood. Wessex was damp and cold and the chill felt like it had settled into his bones, never to leave. Yes, alright, there was a certain satisfaction in besting King Arthur’s men under the guise of the Black Knight, and he enjoyed scaring the ladies and children of the court into thinking the knight was a supernatural harbinger of doom. But Satan, he was ready to go somewhere warmer.

He was about to find the local tavern and partake in extraordinary amounts of alcohol, when the annoying demon with antler-hair appeared and handed him a grubby piece of paper that smelled like a day-old carcass. 

Drop the Black Knight disguise. Infiltrate King Arthur’s Court and find a weakness we can exploit to ensure his reign does not last long. Do not fail us.

Sighing, Crowley half-heartedly signed a wiggly sigil on the greasy card, and trudged towards Camelot.

Six months later, he was bored witless. Currying favor at court was a slow, frustrating process, despite his successful infiltration in the role of court astrologer. 

Crowley didn’t mind playing the long game with his temptations. A well-played gambit over several months or even years was satisfying, but he was getting nowhere with this one. Oh, he could spread a rumour like wildfire, and he had a knack for flattery. But these things were only useful for getting an enemy ejected from the court, or gaining invitations to visit a gallant knight or fair maiden’s chamber of an evening. 

On one particularly enjoyable occasion, he’d spent a month methodically playing the head cook and Arthur’s most loved bard against each other. It was all too easy to incite jealousy; a few lazy nights spent enjoying her quick wit or his carnal talents, while hinting that Crowley preferred the company of the other, and they were at each other’s throats. By the time the month was out, the cook had poisoned the bard. Hell had been particularly pleased with that one - they enjoyed picking away at one or two souls at a time. Thought it was proper demonic craft.

But stopping Arthur, now that would take insider information about … well, anything useful, actually. The King, his campaigns, his plans, any family scandals he could use to stir up trouble. But the only people close to the King were the knights of the round table, and they were infuriatingly tight-lipped when it came to their liege.

Crowley’s impatient waiting paid off one quiet evening, when Camelot was sleeping. Crowley was restlessly pacing the corridors, when he stumbled across Gaheris sitting morosely on a bench near the great hall. Arthur’s nephew was normally good natured, though taciturn. But on this night, Crowley could practically see the black cloud of anger over his head.

“Rough day?” Crowley asked companionably as he sat down beside the young knight. 

Gaheris shrugged, but Crowley could tell he was desperate to talk about his woes. The humans thought astrologers near-magicians, which engendered a certain amount of trust - and fear. Crowley knew how to use both to his advantage.

“They say there’s an ill light about the moon tonight. A reddish halo - blood on the moon, some call it. An inauspicious night indeed, ripe for fights and discord. Perhaps that’s behind your problems?”

“Nought to do with the moon,” Gaheris grumbled. “Lancelot has the King’s ear as always. Trying to persuade him to use some fairy-forged weapon. No good will come of it, I told him. The fae cannot be trusted. Bad as demons, the lot of ‘em.”

Crowley suppressed a grin. Fear of demons was so easy to exploit.

“You clearly have the right of it.” Crowley smiled genially, casually draping an arm around the knight’s shoulders. “What does Lancelot want with the fairies, anyway?”

“He reckons the fairy priestesses of Avalon can forge something that will make the King unbeatable. I told him, messing with fell things such as fairy weapons never ends well. Lancelot knows of a scribe who has studied magical weapons and the King has sent for him.”

“I wouldn’t trust Lancelot, if I were you.” Crowley spoke low, sinking the words into Gaheris’ soul in addition to his mind. “Have you sought support among the other nobles? I hear your half-brother, Mordred, can often be relied on as a voice of reason. You are clearly far more clever than the King gives you credit for.”

“Perhaps I shall send for Mordred.” The young knight’s eyes lit up as if he’d thought of the thing himself. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Satisfied, Crowley returned to his chambers and dozed till morning.

A few days later, the cold dawn found him striding across the fields in search of the scribe. He was growing sluggish in the early autumn chill, and a thin voice in the back of his mind was telling him to find a fire and curl up beside it. But he’d had a note that morning from Beelzebub asking how much longer he needed, and so he couldn’t afford the luxury of rest. Satan, if Gaheris was wrong about this scribe, Crowley would see to it that his chambers were infested with rats until the end of his life.

Of course the mystery scribe had insisted on their own pavilion. They couldn’t just stay in Camelot, where there were fires and torches and blankets. The pavilion was empty when Crowley arrived, abandoned without so much as a fire in the brazier to warm it. There were piles of scrolls everywhere, and the desk was littered with parchment covered in neat black handwriting. The place had a familiar feel, but the cold was taking effect in earnest, clouding Crowley’s thinking. The serpent part of his corporation was making its pains known, and the last thought he had before the unplanned transformation took hold was that Hell had better pay him extra for this. 

His scales dragged over the thick rugs on the tent floor, the cold of the earth beneath seeping through the heavy weave of the material. Crowley was tired. So very, very tired. His logical mind argued that courtly academics probably wouldn’t deal too kindly with snakes, and he should hasten outside. But outside was cold and damp and he could hardly keep himself from slipping into sleep. Hastening to cast a quick demonic miracle for protection against nervous scribes, Crowley crawled into a woven basket filled with blankets, and coiled in on himself, losing consciousness before he’d even finished finding a good sleeping position. 

“Crowley?”

Something was warm against his scales, a slight dragging sensation that was surprisingly soothing. Groggy, Crowley raised his head, tongue flickering in the air and immediately recognising the fresh rain and ink taste of the angel. 

“Dear boy, are you alright? You feel terribly cold but of course that might be normal …”

“S’alright.” Crowley hissed, still fuzzy-headed. “Was looking for the sssscribe. Didn’t know it was you.”

“And then you … decided to sleep in the basket?”

Aziraphale sounded baffled.

“Nuh. Bit over-tired, and it’s cold here. Couldn’t stay awake.”

“Do you … um, that is … need to warm up? I could light a fire.”

Crowley paused, head weaving slowly. Almost every instinct in his body was telling him no, slither on out of here. But bless it all, he’d missed the angel. He hadn’t seen him since they’d eaten oysters in Rome, something he’d thought about far too often.

“A fire would be helpful, yeah.”

There was the sound of logs being put in the brazier, then the sudden scent of woodsmoke. Aziraphale returned to crouch down beside the basket, acting as if this was all completely normal.

“Are you comfortable there? Or would you be more comfortable in a chair?”

“‘M fine.” Crowley said, teeth snapping closed against the urge to comment that some angelic body heat would be very welcome at that moment. Aziraphale seemed content with the answer, but he remained beside the basket anyway. Crowley reared up, still woozy from sleep, swaying slightly as he regarded the angel. 

“Everything alright, then?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s only … if you were cold, might I hold you? I … I don’t want to be forward.”

Crowley was glad of his relatively expressionless face at that moment, for his human face would surely have cracked a smile. He’d only longed to touch the angel since the wall of Eden, since he’d spread his wing over Crowley and looked at him as if he was something worth caring for. Crowley hoarded every single touch in his memory. The brush of the angel’s fingers against his lips as he fed Crowley his first oyster. The sudden shock of his soft white curls against Crowley’s skin as he bent his head to his shoulder in laughter at some quip Crowley had made. An unguarded grab at his hand when Aziraphale forgot himself in his rush to show Crowley some wonderful new discovery. 

An exploratory taste of the air brought back concern, affection, and … was that a hint of longing? Had Aziraphale missed him too? Emboldened by the thought, Crowley inclined his head in an approximation of a nod.

“Might be nice,” he said casually. Then strong, warm hands, hands he’d always wanted to feel on his chest and waist, grabbing at his hips, were sliding carefully under his coils. Aziraphale was so careful, hands curving over Crowley as if afraid to hurt him.

“I’m not breakable,” Crowley said in annoyance, because he absolutely wasn’t going to admit to enjoying being thus gently handled. 

“That doesn’t mean I ought to be rough with you,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, carrying Crowley looped over his hands and strong forearms. Then he settled himself on the bed, stretching his legs out, and placing Crowley on his stomach. He was wearing a thick embroidered tunic over a heavy cotton shirt, along with a thick fur-lined cloak, which he now pulled over himself so it blanketed Crowley. The demon sighed, drunk on the warmth and softness, slowly climbing the front of Aziraphale’s body until his head rested in the crook of the angel’s neck. Aziraphale gasped slightly, stifled it quickly, and Crowley froze.

“Is this alright?”

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale cupped a hand behind Crowley’s head and gently but insistently pushed it to rest against his shoulder once more. “Thank you for letting me hold you.”

Crowley wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and so he simply snuggled into the angel, letting himself bunch and loop against the warmth of his chest and stomach, enjoying the slow rhythm of Aziraphale’s breathing. He resisted the urge to let himself ripple against the angel, just to feel more of his warm body against Crowley’s own. But his half-asleep serpent corporation, drunk on being so near the object of his desire, disobediently curled his tail around Aziraphale’s thigh and gave it a quick possessive squeeze. Aziraphale didn’t draw away. Instead, he trailed, his fingers softly over the scales atop Crowley’s head, and down his back. 

“Now then. Tell me how the serpent of Eden ended up cold enough to sleep in my basket?”

Crowley hissed his annoyance, but related the whole sorry tale.

“Ah, so you are the disruptive influence I was sent to thwart.”

Crowley rippled his long body in an approximation of a shrug, then looked up at the angel.

“Nothing new there. You’ve been trying to thwart me since Eden.”

“Succeeding, too,” Aziraphale admonished, but his voice was warm.

There was a long, almost comfortable silence, filled only with the crackling of the fire and the slow, even rhythm of Aziraphale’s breathing.

“What will happen?”

“What’s that, dear boy?”

Crowley sighed and butted the angel’s shoulder with his head. “If you fail to thwart me, what will happen?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

Crowley groaned. He needed more limbs and better eyesight for this conversation. Grudgingly relinquishing the warmth of Aziraphale’s solid body, he slithered onto the bed and transformed into his human corporation. If Aziraphale looked a little disappointed to lose the closeness - closeness they had never shared before - surely that was Crowley’s wild imagination? Aziraphale gathered some thick woven blankets and furs, draping them around Crowley. Then he went to the fire and set about boiling hot water.

“Stop fussing, angel,” Crowley groused.

Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look, but sat down beside him.

“Tell me about your assignment.”

“Tell me about those reprimands.”

“It’s not that bad. A ban on miracles and opening my wings for a time. Sometimes a little tweak to my energy, as a reminder of the value of obedience.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, you know. For a certain time, specific thoughts, emotions, or actions, cause a surge of pain. I should imagine Hell has much worse.”

Crowley added finding every worm of an angel who’d ever dared do such a thing to Aziraphale, and crushing them under his boots, to his list of burning ambitions.

“Your assignment, Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted

“Oh, you know. Spread a bit of dissent and discord. And I’m good at that, so you don’t need to worry about me, angel.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, and Crowley quickly stood up.

“Thanks for helping me get back to a normal temperature. I appreciate it.”

Then, before Aziraphale could say anything else, he strode out through the tent flap, and into the chilly dawn.


	2. Excalibur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a courtly task that's been keeping him away from Crowley. But when the demon finally catches up to him, emotions bubble to the surface and truths are told.

Something possessive was rising in Crowley. He’d long since lost the ability to love like an angel, but he could covet like a demon. Aziraphale wasn’t his. But that didn’t stop venom rising in him, begging to be bitten into anyone who dared look at the angel the wrong way. 

Aziraphale was clearly avoiding him. Every time he went to the angel’s tent, he was busy. On the rare times Aziraphale came to Camelot, he would give a polite smile and nod, and then walk away.

Irritation was heating Crowley’s blood like burning sulphur. If the angel wanted to keep his secrets, fine. Crowley’s urge to learn the scribe’s secrets had waned when he learned the scribe was Aziraphale and he would be reprimanded if he didn’t thwart Crowley. He’d been frantically trying to find another way to satisfy Hell.

But his need to protect the angel was overwhelming him, and how could he do that if Aziraphale wouldn’t talk to him? If he wasn’t allowed to be near him?

The next time he sensed Aziraphale’s presence in Camelot, he strode to the room that was emanating celestial light and the distinctive quick thinking, worry-hearted, feeling of Aziraphale, and shoved the door open.

“I don’t care what you’re doing for Arthur. I’m not going to try and thwart you, alright? I’ll find another way to please Hell. Just for the love of Satan, can we talk, sometimes? I thought we were friends.”

“Just friends?” Aziraphale said with a teasing note in his voice, but the way his blue eyes flicked up to Crowley’s revealed the depth of hope and fear for Crowley’s answer.

“No, not just friends.” Crowley sighed. This was dangerous. “Look, angel, you know I can’t …”

“I know you can’t feel love.”

“It’s like everything else.” Crowley kept talking even when Aziraphale put his hand up to gesture that he didn’t need an explanation. Crowley had started this journey, and damned if he wasn’t going to finish it. “Got twisted when I fell. Where I would have loved, I feel possessive. I want to protect, own, keep. Want to retract your question now?” He gave a hollow laugh.

Aziraphale closed the distance between them in brisk, decisive steps.

“Don’t be a fool, Crowley. I’m an angel - did you think I couldn’t sense your feelings? The way you want to grasp the things you care about to you and never let them go? The pleasure you find in tempting people? The way you want to crush those who would harm you or I to dust? Crowley I have felt the maelstrom of your emotions, and if I could I would be a lighthouse beam to soothe them, but if I cannot do that, I will gladly drown in the surge and go under with you.”

“You would say that knowing what it means? Knowing that to draw close to me is to draw close to pain and anger and the irresistible need to own you?”

Aziraphale gave him a little half smile. “You don’t know me quite as well as you think you do.”

With that he leaned up and captured Crowley’s mouth in a long kiss, sighing against him as his lips explored and pressed. Crowley groaned, crushing the angel to him and whimpering with pleasure when he parted his lips so Crowley could push his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth and kiss him like he couldn't get deep enough. Aziraphale was so pliant in his arms, tilting his head back for Crowley’s kiss and clinging to him. After a few minutes, the angel pushed Crowley back, with a soft groan of regret.

“Don’t stop.” The words were out before Crowley could swallow them. Aziraphale gazed openly up at him, pressing a hand to his chest and caressing his body through his clothes.

“I don’t want to.” He said candidly, leaning up for another long kiss. “I have wanted to kiss you since Rome, but was unsure if you would welcome it. But there is something you must see -”

Crowley reached out and pulled him closer. “I would have welcomed it. I do. I assumed that you would not … that because I cannot …”

“Well, now you know that is not true.” Aziraphale smiled then, his gaze lingering on Crowley’s face as if he wanted to remember this moment. “But I must explain ... you are right that I have not spent as much time around you as I might, of late. The truth is, I have been trying to figure out what to do about - well - probably easier to show you.”

He crossed the room then, and picked up a long, elegant sword that gleamed like moonlight, the blade covered in arcane symbols. 

“This is Excalibur. It was forged on Avalon. I was sent thither to retrieve it, and tasked with making for it an enchanted scabbard that will protect the wearer from spilling but a drop of their own blood. I am to present it to Arthur at the harvest feast this week.”

“Then present it.” Crowley walked over to admire the blade at close quarters. It was a thing of beauty, its lines too neat to have been forged by human hands, its hilt wrapped with an ornate dragon designed to curve comfortably around the holder’s hand. “We both know Heaven will have a conniption if you do not. What choice do you have?”

Aziraphale turned to him, the guttering light from the torches picking out gold highlights in his hair.

“You know I cannot. Hell will be so angry if you do not defeat Arthur, and defeating him will be much more difficult once he has this.”

“Not like he’s going to sleep wearing the thing. There will be other opportunities to thwart him. Give him the sword, let him wear it into the next battle, and I will figure it out from there.”

Aziraphale gave him an uncertain look that promised to bloom into stubbornness at any moment.

Crowley leaned down to lick the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “Do it.” He hissed against him.

Aziraphale sighed and cupped Crowley’s face in his palm. “Very well. I will do it, but if you suffer as a result, I shall not assist Arthur again, no matter what Heaven says about it.”

Crowley cast a long look at Excalibur, which glowed with an unearthly light. This was going to complicate matters. Cursing inwardly, he nuzzled Aziraphale’s beautiful face, amazed that he was allowed to do so, enjoying it despite his frustration at the situation. Then he stalked out into the long stone corridor, and went in search of a few temptations to take the edge off his annoyance.

He’d meant to skip the presentation. But the chance to see Aziraphale in his most regal garb was a temptation Crowley could not resist. Besides, a major event at court was a wonderful opportunity to cultivate new channels of information and nudge various political and personal affiliations in beneficial directions. It was, as Crowley expected, boring, though things got a little more interesting when Aziraphale stepped up to present Excalibur. The cream brocade of his tunic and fine pale blue linen of his shirt perfectly complimented his cream-coloured hair and soft blue eyes, and Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

Aziraphale presented the blade and scabbard to Arthur with a polite bow and a soft intonation of a blessing. Then he was making his way through the crowd, heading towards the exit. Crowley peeled himself out of the shadows at the back of the room and followed the angel into the corridor. Aziraphale turned at the sound of his footfall, and smiled like a sunrise.

“Crowley.”

“Who else?” He shrugged, then stepped closer to the angel and steered him into a nearby alcove. Aziraphale sighed softly, grabbing Crowley’s hips brazenly and tugging him close.

“Oh, you are terrible at being an angel.” Crowley grinned, letting his hips roll forward, slipping his thigh between the angel’s legs.

“I resent that remark,” Aziraphale huffed, but pulled Crowley down and kissed him as if he was parched and Crowley was a long drink of water. Crowley groaned low in his chest, greedy hands seizing Aziraphale’s hips, then sliding up his sides, enjoying the curves of his body. When he boldly slid his hand between the angel’s legs, stroking the growing hardness there, Aziraphale gave a lustful moan, fingers deftly undoing Crowley’s tunic and shirt.

"I've waited so long for us to be honest about what we are to each other." He murmured against Crowley's mouth. "I hope you realise I'm yours."

Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale's back, kissing his jaw reverently. "I realise now." He teased, and was rewarded with another delightful moan.

Beelzebub chose that precise moment to announce their arrival in the banqueting hall. Crowley drew back with a curse.

“What is it?”

“Beezlebub’s just arrived. No doubt checking up on their pet project.”

.Aziraphale cast Crowley a sympathetic look, quickly fastening the buttons on Crowley’s shirt that he’d just undone.

“Best go, dear boy. I ought to check in with Heaven too, I suppose. But I will be thinking of you, believe me.”

Crowley stalked back to the hall, cursing Hell and Heaven and everything else.

“Yes?” he demanded, leaning against a pillar and regarding the Prince of Hell.

“You were suppozzzed to oversee the ceremony.”

“I did. Left as soon as it was over. Got better things to do than watch a bunch of humans swanning around.”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “Thiszzz had better go well for us, serpent, or you will be very sorry indeed.”

“Everything’s fine, Lord Beelzebub. Trust me.”

“Not if trusting you would get me all the riches in the world. Mind your duties, Crowley. You’re not as powerful in Hell as you think you are.”

With that they were gone, and there was no sign of Aziraphale. Suddenly, even the thought of a temptation wasn’t enough to distract Crowley. Retreating to the garden, he hid under cover of darkness and watched the stars he’d helped create, racking his brain for a way to satisfy Hell without hurting Aziraphale.

*******

It wasn’t long before Arthur put Excalibur to the test. It was a fairly minor skirmish with a troop of local dissenters. From the edge of the battlefield, it was easy enough to hide from view and watch as Arthur’s gold and white-clad knights slew their opponents. The king himself was on the field, and Crowley noticed at once that he wore a white scabbard with interlaced blue and gold threads across the surface. Even from a distance, the thrum of angelic energy was obvious. Turning from the battlefield, Crowley allowed himself one tiny, bitter smile. He was going to pay for this. But at least Aziraphale was not.

On his way across the fields, he paused beside a strong oak tree, leaning against it for support. Crowley had a knack with things that grew. Plants flourished under his care. Wildflowers grew more prolific, and trees grew taller. Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the rough bark. The sounds of battle still raged behind him, ugly and pained. He couldn’t sense Aziraphale anywhere. Most likely the angel had bestowed the gift of the scabbard and then got out of the way. He’d given away his flaming sword - he was hardly likely to be on the battlefield.

Crowley opened his eyes, noticing for the first time that the plain on which he stood was carpeted with heavensbloom, the grass awash with the delicate sky blue flowers that were so popular with the ladies of the court. Envy for their ability to enjoy their partners openly, to flirt and dance and undress them with their eyes, rose in him like a geyser of fire. Gritting his teeth, Crowley tried to hang on to the memory of the angel’s warm embrace as he straightened up and strode into Hell as if he owned the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ★. Comments are fuel for hungry authors - I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> The next chapter is ready to go and will be posted tomorrow. Be sure and hit subscribe to be the first to know when it drops.
> 
> **Behind the scenes notes**
> 
> This Crowley was a total surprise to me! I've never written a Crowley who couldn't feel love, or who liked tempting people and causing strife. Writing him was a new experience, and definitely expanded my horizons as a writer.
> 
> Aziraphale's line about drowning in the surge was totally unplanned, as was him going to fetch Excalibur! As he was talking about avoiding Crowley I was thinking "huh, why?" and then the truth came out, surprising me as much as Crowley. I've been a bit obsessed with Excalibur since I was a kid - I even presented a sword, representing Excalibur, to the high priestess during a ceremony in the White Spring shrine at the foot of Glastonbury Tor once! So I'm not surprised my subconscious found a way to work it in.


	3. Reprimands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley knows why he is in pain, but why is Aziraphale? After all, King Arthur should have won the last battle, claiming a victory for Heaven's chosen side. Crowley learns that both Heaven and Hell have their ways of reprimanding disobedient immortals - and the lengths Aziraphale is willing to go to for him.

This was a transcendentally bad idea. Seeking out the angel like a wounded animal looking for a hiding place was humiliating. But the night was dark and the pain was considerable, and Crowley was too groggy to think straight. Weaving his way towards the angel’s pavilion, he barely managed to whisper his name, before he was falling through the flap of the tent and landing face down on the thick blue and gold rug.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded both far away and horrified. “What happened to you?”

Strong, warm hands were examining Crowley’s back and limbs, trying to find out what hurt, what was broken. The truth was everything hurt, and everything was broken, or at least, had been broken and was trying very hard to right itself. With a great effort, Crowley rolled onto his back so he could look up at the angel and try to quirk a smile.

“Hell certainly lives up to its name sometimes. Honestly, you’d think I’d canonised sixteen new saints, the way they were carrying on down there. Alright if I hide out here, just for tonight? Fancied some company for the drinking I plan to do. Got any mead?”

“Mead? I do, but really Crowley I think it’s far more pressing that I …”

“Angel, please just shut up and give me the alcohol.”

With a worried look that nearly ripped Crowley’s insouciance in two, the angel fetched two goblets and some mead, pouring a generous serving for each of them and setting them on a low wooden table.

“At least let me help you into a seat …”

Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale was carefully gathering him into his arms, carrying him across the tent, and placing him in a chair, tucking a thick fur around his shoulders. His body felt awkward and stiff as he carried Crowley, and when he placed him in the chair Crowley could have sworn he saw red scars across the angel’s palms. But he must have imagined it, for the next moment his dear, familiar hands were as soft and pale and capable as ever.

This time Crowley let Aziraphale fuss around the fire, boiling water, and steeping chamomile and lavender into a calming tea, which he sweetened with honey before pressing it into Crowley’s hands and insisting he drink it before he started on the mead. 

“Crowley, what happened?”

“Eh. Hell weren’t too pleased with my efforts to thwart good King Arthur.”

“I don’t understand … he did not win the last battle.”

“How is that possible? I didn’t attempt to swing it, and he had the damn scabbard for Excalibur. Should have been an easy victory …”

“Crowley...” The angel’s voice was soft and awed, and Crowley suddenly couldn’t look at him. 

“It should have worked. He should have won. What went wrong? Satan’s sake, there’d better be a damn good reason. They made me drink my own venom, you know. I don’t think my insides will be right again for years. No ordinary stuff, that. Good if they want you to stay still while they break and reset a few bones, though.”

Aziraphale put his hand over his eyes. Seconds later Crowley heard a barely-stifled sob, and the sound pierced him. When the angel was sad, Crowley was overcome with the desire to make things right again, even if it meant tearing a few people apart. Aziraphale’s pain struck an answering chord in him, and he couldn’t rest until the Principality felt better. Crowley suspected that was the closest to love he would ever get. Fine by him, so long as he could still be around the angel.

“This is all my fault. Oh Crowley.”

“How could this possibly be your fault?” Crowley shifted position, wincing as his barely-healed bones protested at the sudden movement. 

“I influenced the battle at the last moment. Put on some armour and used my celestial sword to frighten away several of our own men, under the guise of an opposing soldier.”

No wonder Crowley hadn’t sensed him. He would never have thought to check the battlefield.

“Angel! Why the Hell would you do something like that?” Crowley’s angry gesture only served to remind him of how badly his limbs hurt.

“So you would escape a reprimand! I thought if I just … if Arthur lost, you could claim the victory as your own and Hell would be pleased with you.”

Crowley was stunned. For several minutes all he could do was stare at Aziraphale.

“You … you threw the battle, and threw yourself into the battle to save me from a reprimand, even knowing you would get one yourself?”

Aziraphale shrugged and took a long swallow of mead. Suddenly Crowley had to be up, had to be moving, the frenetic energy inside him demanding release.

“I left for Hell knowing Arthur was winning! Why did Hell even punish me if he …. Nah, you know what, that figures. Course they’re too quick to punish me. Always late with the commendations, early with the reprimands.”

“Let me at least heal you.”

“I don’t need … ” Crowley started, but seeing the crushed look on the angel’s face, he reconsidered. “Oh, alright. I suppose it might help.”

Aziraphale nodded tightly and got up to take Crowley by the elbow and steer him back to the seat. He took a deep breath then hovered his hands a few inches from Crowley’s chest. Crowley felt a low thrum of angelic power, and the unique sensation of his bones knitting more firmly together.

“I suppose Hell saw the battle was going well for Arthur … I was rather tardy in taking action to turn the tide, and I know Hell tends to jump to conclusions faster than Gabriel jumps at the chance to look down his nose at someone. I am sorry, Crowley.”

“Sorry? What for? You put yourself in danger, to keep me out of it.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, though his gaze flicked up briefly to meet Crowley’s with a look so tender, Crowley felt flayed naked by it. He’d never wanted to be human. Didn’t envy them the constant need to eat and sleep and take care of their fragile little corporations. But the ability to casually reach out and touch each other’s cheek or press their lips together, to shut out the world and vanish into one of their own making? That he envied. And, apparently stirred by the angel’s willingness to literally run into battle for him, Crowley’s hand moved of its own accord to brush the line of the angel’s cheekbone. Oh, he was so soft. His skin was warm and velvety and Crowley was jolted to his core by the sudden urge to press his lips and hands to every last inch of Aziraphale’s naked skin.

When Aziraphale gasped and pulled back as if Crowley had struck him, the demon wanted the ground under the tent to open up and send Cerberus to devour him, to save him from the humiliation. After their passion the night Aziraphale showed him Excalibur, he’d thought the angel at least wasn’t repulsed by him, maybe even accepted his nature. 

“Crowley …” Aziraphale reached towards him but stopped short of touching him.

“Don’t.”

He snapped, but then he saw it: A line of tiny inflamed red welts against the pale skin of the angel’s face, following the path Crowley’s fingers had taken.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale lifted his fingers to his face, looking embarrassed, as if he hadn’t wanted Crowley to see. 

“That’s why you felt so tense when you carried me. Aziraphale - did Heaven punish you for what you did?”

“Well, yes, but it is temporary.”

“How temporary? And what specifically did they do?” Crowley moved his seat further from Aziraphale’s. 

“Gabriel surmised that I might have been trying to protect you from Hell. It was decided that an appropriate punishment for caring about a demon might be to ensure I cannot touch the demon in question. I believe it will last until … until we find a way to break it.”

“You call that temporary? In what universe is that temporary?” Crowley could feel his stomach roiling, threatening to regurgitate the mead he’d drunk.

“It is temporary.” Aziraphale had that stubborn look on his face. “Because whatever they have done, it can be undone, and it shall be undone, because this I am not willing to accept.”

Crowley nodded, cognisant of the way his hands were twisting around the arms of his chair hard enough that the wood was beginning to splinter.

“‘I’ve got to go, angel.” Crowley got to his feet and headed towards the door.

“Go? But Crowley, you sought me out.”

“Yeah, I did. And now I’m so angry with Heaven that if I stay here, you’re going to have less furniture and more shredded wall hangings.”

“What will you …. do?” The look on Aziraphale’s face was like a thousand heated needles in Crowley’s skin. Turning on his heel, he strode back to Aziraphale and grabbed the front of his tunic in both hands.

“Why, angel? Afraid I’ll hurt someone? Worried I might show a little too much of my nature for your liking?”

Aziraphale looked indignant, opening his mouth as if to speak, then he seemed to change his mind, instead pulling Crowley to him and kissing him hard. Aziraphale’s hands were warm on his face, and Crowley tried to push them away, to tell Aziraphale he didn’t want him to suffer but then the angel moaned and parted his lips, tongue seeking Crowley’s, and they were kissing as if they’d never been doing anything else. 

“I can’t.” Crowley groaned against him, the thought of hurting the angel cutting through him like a dark blade, but he’d waited, oh he’d waited so long and Aziraphale was right there, in his arms, pressing that beautiful body up against him and moaning as he threaded his fingers in Crowley’s hair and kissed him over and over. For one selfish moment, Crowley succumbed to his blazing need to get as much of the angel against him as possible, wrapping both arms around Aziraphale and kissing him back hard. 

At first he tasted rain and roses, and then Aziraphale’s desperate moan turned to a sound of pain, and Crowley felt the angel’s lips growing hot and raw under his own. He staggered backwards to lean against one of the supporting posts, breathing hard. Aziraphale still stood in the centre of the tent, staring at him. His lips were blistered red, and there were tears running down his face.

It was only when he stepped closer, that Crowley realised they were tears of joy.

“My love …”

“Don’t.” Crowley raised his hand as a barrier between them. “How can I be your love, when your mouth is bleeding from my kiss? When just touching my arm makes you wince in pain?”

“All of those things are Heaven’s doing, and you know it. Crowley, I …”

“Please don’t say it, angel. Please” Crowley’s words were brittle little twigs, shattering under the weight of what he had to say next. “I have to go.”

“I understand.” 

“No, you don’t.” Crowley instinctively reached to touch his face, then let his hand drop with a sigh. “If we were free to do as we pleased, I would hide this tent from human eyes, lay you down on that bed, and show you every pleasure I know and some I haven’t discovered yet, until all you could do was call my name.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes at that, taking a ragged breath in.

“But we aren’t free, angel.”

“Crowley, we have hidden so much. How would this be different? Talking to me is quite as dangerous as touching me, frankly.”

“Except talking to you doesn’t blister your skin and make you gasp in pain.”

“Kissing you is worth a little pain, and being intimate with you would be worth more.”

Crowley highly doubted it, but realised that saying so would get him nowhere. Instead he asked, “Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“If it hurt me to touch you, if my lips nearly bled when you kissed me, would you still do it? Would you hold me, if I said I wanted it, knowing that my body would be covered in red welts wherever your fingers brushed me, that my bones would ache even if I had several layers of clothing on? Would you be able to lay a finger on me?”

Crowley leaned a little on Aziraphale’s mind, showing him what it might be like. Aziraphale stared at the ground, fingers fiddling nervously with his tunic.

“I truly do not know.”

“Of course you wouldn’t - “ Crowley snapped his mouth shut in surprise. He’d expected Aziraphale to say that of course he wouldn’t touch Crowley, if their roles were reversed. But that hadn’t happened.

Crowley looked the angel up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “You what?”

“I said, I don’t know. It would be agony, being torn between my need to touch you and my need to protect you …. Oh.” His eyes widened. “Yes, I do rather see your problem. I will not keep you, Crowley, but I am sure we will see each other at court.” 

There was a long silence. Crowley knew the angel well enough to know when something was on his mind.

“Out with it, angel.”

Aziraphale kept his eyes down. “I was just considering that, well, I know you cannot love. And I do not wish to change you! Please don’t think I mean that. Only … you do love in your own way, don’t you? You are always thinking of how to protect me, and what is best for me. Almost as if … as if you were destined … as if we were destined … anyway.” He looked up then, his eyes brimming with tears. “What will you do now?”

Crowley shrugged. “Do my best to thwart Arthur, I suppose. Perhaps we could … work together, somehow? Find a way to balance one another out? If we both do our best but end up in a tie, no one can blame us. You won’t get hurt again.”

“They’d check, surely. It’s too dangerous. No, I think the safest thing is to do our jobs for now.”

“Whatever you say, angel. And for the record, I don’t believe in destiny, except where you are concerned.” Crowley managed something like a smile, then he was gone.


	4. Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes his frustration out on the local flora, but a letter to Avalon holds a vital clue that could work to he and Aziraphale's benefit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content note**
> 
> This chapter references them being intimate while Crowley is in his snake form. It's literally one sentence, but warning you here in case that's a squick.

Crowley had thought at first that seeing Aziraphale at Court would soothe them both. After all, hadn’t they shared oysters and good bread and local wine or date palm cocktails many times over the centuries, without touching? Of course there’d always been a slight frisson of energy, knowing looks, and a few quick easily-excused touches that had made him ache, but it was a beautiful pain. A sweet torture that he dreamed of assuaging, but was also content to enjoy as it was.

But this was something else. This was being close to water, yet dying of drought. Every sight of Aziraphale, of the fine cream and gold brocade that highlighted his pale hair and ocean eyes, made Crowley want to tear Heaven and Hell apart until he could finally take Aziraphale in his arms, kiss him till he was shaking with lust, follow the connection forged between them to its natural conclusion. He wanted to storm Heaven, take God by the throat, and demand to know what cruelty this was, that Her own servants had made it so that where an angel loved, he would feel pain.

Sometimes, Aziraphale would wear thick gloves that allowed him to brush Crowley’s arm or shoulder, if Crowley was wearing thick clothes. But never his bare skin. There wasn’t enough protection in the world for that.

One night, frustrated by seeing too many humans stealing kisses and smiles and long embraces, Crowley stalked out of Camelot, overflowing with rage and frustration. Knowing that he might never find a way to save Aziraphale from his torment, was unacceptable.

Stifling a scream of pure frustration, Crowley channelled his anger into the nearest unsuspecting plant. The light blue heavensbloom made him think too much of Eden, of seeing the angel among the flowers and vines there with his beautiful smile and his openness and curiosity. Crowley hated everything She had created, apart from Aziraphale and himself. He wanted to punish the whole world for what Heaven had wrought upon the angel, and upon him. 

As he watched, the delicate pale blooms turned purple with long thin petals, and spines formed on the pedicel. Crowley gave the flower a nasty smile. “Bet the courtly ladies won’t enjoy giving you as tokens so much now.” He told it, then kept walking until not even a hint of Camelot’s revelry reached his ears.

Of course the angel noticed. Of course he did. The next time Crowley visited his tent, on the pretext of bringing him a new quill because his had looked particularly tattered at their last meeting, Aziraphale greeted him with a sly smile and an innocent sounding “what, dear, might this be?” as he held up the ruined heavensbloom. “They're calling it a thistle now, you know. A fitting word, don’t you think? It somehow sounds like it feels.”

“I had a moment, alright?”

Crowley muttered, but there was no malice in Aziraphale’s expression, and, Satan, it was just good to see him. Pouring them each a hearty goblet of mead, Crowley sat down out of arm’s reach.

“We went centuries without touching,” Aziraphale said abruptly. Probably better to just get it over with, Crowley thought resignedly. The angel was bound to bring that up eventually, bless his logical mind. 

“Didn’t know what I was missing then, did I? Had to be a little dramatic over it. But I’m right again now, angel. We can just carry on as normal, yeah?”

Aziraphale gave him a tiny smile and thankfully didn’t say any of the things so evident behind his expressive eyes, things that Crowley would likely have killed to hear, were it not for the fact that his touch pained the angel. 

“Of course … just … may I ask one more question?”

“Angel … you can ask as many questions as you want to.” Crowley felt his heart, spikier than the thistles, soften at the worried tone of Aziraphale’s voice.

“I just wonder if I could still touch you, were you a snake. Heaven can be remarkably obtuse, and they would expect me to ignore you or possibly pick you up with a stick and throw you asid - do not give me that look, you know perfectly well I would no - as an obedient angel should.”

Crowley blew out a breath, sat back. Took another long drink of mead.

“Worth a try, I suppose.”

Aziraphale gave a small shrug that clearly wanted to be nonchalant, but was no such thing. Putting his goblet down, Crowley gave the angel one last long look, then stopped trying to hold his human corporation together, and let it collapse into a spill of glossy black scales. His vision was fuzzier in this form, but his questing tongue tasted the familiar scent of his angel. Aziraphale came to sit on the floor beside the chair where Crowley was now coiled, and hovered a hand over Crowley’s head.

“May I?”

“Coursssse. I’m not the one we should be worrying about.”

Aziraphale passed his hand slowly down Crowley’s back. Then did it again. When he did it a third time, with a soft sigh of pleasure, Crowley reared up impatiently.

“Well? Less pain?”

“No pain at all.”

Crowley could taste the angel’s joy and excitement.

“I can hold you after all! Oh, Crowley.”

Aziraphale was so excited that he picked Crowley up without a by-your-leave, gathering his heavy looping coils in his arms and carrying him to the bed, where he reclined and draped the demon over his chest and stomach as if Crowley was a particularly scaly blanket. Crowley couldn’t help laughing at Aziraphale’s enthusiasm, gently butting the angel’s cheek with his head.

“Steady on there.”

“My apologies.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could sense the angel’s cheeks heating as he blushed. “I am just so happy, my dear.”

Crowley looped himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders, trying not to think too hard about the fact that this was the most he’d ever got to touch the angel. It was obviously on Aziraphale’s mind too though, for he ran his hand down the length of Crowley’s body and then pulled him tighter against him, with a low, longing sigh.

“Oh, I could get used to holding you this close, my beautiful serpent.”

Crowley turned his head and flicked his tongue softly against Aziraphale’s cheek. He didn’t need to say anything else. Aziraphale cradled him close and they spent the night like that, listening to the soft sounds of the breeze and insects chirping, content in one another’s embrace.

When Crowley woke the next morning, he was still lying sprawled across Aziraphale, long loops open and lax.

“Good morning, darling.”

Crowley looked groggily up at the angel, tasting a soft sense of peace radiating from him.

“Morning, angel. Shouldn’t you be up and thwarting wiles?”

“Ah, my main occupation today is research. I thought, if you wanted to, you might … spend some of it with me?”

Crowley couldn’t think of anything he would like more, and said so, finding it somehow easier to be open when his expression was by nature more guarded. And so, as Aziraphale settled at his desk and began reading a stack of manuscripts, and making complex notes and diagrams in his impeccable handwriting, Crowley looped himself around his waist and shoulders so he could rest his head in the crook of the angel’s neck. His skin was as warm and soft as spring blossoms drenched in sunlight, and Crowley privately thought that he could be content to live the rest of his life like this, wrapped protectively around his angel, allowed to touch him, allowed to rub his head along the line of his jaw, and even give his neck and cheek tiny lashes with his tongue. Aziraphale occasionally muttered something about not interrupting him, but he didn’t push Crowley away. Indeed, every delicate lash of tongue caused him to trail a finger over the scales between Crowley’s eyes, or run a careful hand over the long curves of his body, palm cupping his red underbelly.

Hours became days became weeks. Crowley had found his own paradise - one where he and Aziraphale debated ancient texts by day, drank good wine long into the evening, and curled close to each other at night. At some point, without discussing it, they seemed to have agreed that the best place for Crowley to keep his snake corporation warm, was looped against Aziraphale’s bare skin, coils sliding easily against the downy softness. And if, sometimes, he happened to slide and writhe between the angel’s thighs in a way that made them both moan, and left his red nether scales painted white with the angel’s pleasure, well, who was there to judge?

Late summer became early autumn, but Aziraphale continued to live in his tent, albeit expending a few more miracles here and there to keep the space warm. Then one evening, as he was pouring over the manuscripts by the light of a few candles, he suddenly sat back in his chair with a satisfied “ah.” Crowley, who had been sleeping in his lap, jerked awake and looked up at the angel.

“Find something interesting?”

“Oh, yes, my dear.” Aziraphale put the manuscripts down, lifting Crowley into his arms and crossing to the bed, where he could recline with Crowley coiled along his chest and stomach. “I have found here a draft of a letter, from Arthur’s mother Igraine, to his half-sister Morgan, who dwells on Avalon. It is a little difficult to piece together without the letter to which she is replying, but it seems that the priestesses there have a wish that should Arthur ever be mortally wounded, he will be born hence so that the priestesses can attempt to save him.”

“And this matters to us because ….?”

“What if you were to press the next battle towards ill? I would not interfere, and Arthur would be slain as Hell wishes, or at least, close enough. If I were then to send a barge to bear him away to Avalon, both sides would be happy. You used all your demonic wiles - and thwarted him. I used my angelic power - and found him healing.”

“Angel … I know you, you won’t be able to live with letting a man be more or less slain.”

“It will be difficult, I confess, but he will be healed shortly after. I have seen Avalon, my dear. I truly believe they can do it. Oh, it does not sit well with me, I cannot deny it, but … which is the worse? To take a stance of non-interference in a battle, in the hope of appeasing both Heaven and Hell, knowing Arthur still has a good chance at healing? Or to do as I am bid, knowing that if I succeed Hell will torture you again?”

Crowley had no answer to that, instead moving so he could press his face to Aziraphale’s and squeeze him gently and, he hoped, reassuringly. Aziraphale smiled a little at that, nuzzling his cheek against Crowley’s.

“In my considered opinion, it is worth the risk to appease Hell, for your sake. You are worth the risk.”

Crowley reared up and flicked his tongue gently at the angel’s hairline. “It just might work.”

Aziraphale turned and pressed a long, loving kiss to his snout, though Crowley could taste notes of fear and doubt beneath the affection.

“Yes, my dear fellow. It just might.”


	5. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the eve of battle arrives, Aziraphale has beautiful, bittersweet news to share with Crowley.

Crowley would have paid good money to accompany Aziraphale to Avalon, but he guessed an unexpected intrusion from a demon would not be welcomed. And so he was forced to wait at court, passing the time with idle temptations and gleefully feeding on the frustration and confusion they caused.

When Gaheris finally brought Mordred to Camelot, Crowley’s temptations found a focus. Mordred had a quick mind and a jealous nature. This heady combination made it incredibly easy for Crowley to flatter his way into his confidence, and needle him until he believed the only possible path was to slay Arthur and take his place. 

“Patience,” Crowley hissed in his ear as they sat beside the fire one evening. Mordred certainly had a weakness for Crowley’s lean frame and red hair, a weakness Crowley was exploiting at that moment, his long fingers tracing patterns on the man’s thigh. “Draw him to trust you - it will be easier to get your way, and you will get to enjoy the sweet taste of his feelings of betrayal.”

Mordred was an admirably quick study, swiftly working his way into his uncle’s affections. But getting him to instigate a battle that Crowley could use as the canvas for his demonic masterpiece was proving more difficult. Mordred was more than ready to kill Arthur in his sleep, but Crowley could not allow that. A battle was the only way to bring Avalon into play, thus satisfying both Heaven and Hell. 

Then fate intervened in a way even Crowley could not have imagined. Arthur discovered that his beautiful but faithless bride Guinevere had enjoyed relations with his erstwhile knight, Lancelot. Enraged, he set off for France to hunt down Lancelot, leaving his trusted kinsman Mordred to guard Albion until his return. Crowley barely had to suggest Mordred take his rightful place on the throne. He thought of it himself - Crowley simply encouraged him to act on his impulses

By the time Aziraphale returned, Mordred was more than ready to murder the King as soon as Arthur deigned to return to the island, so he could keep the throne for himself. Intelligence had reached Mordred’s ears that Arthur had heard of his betrayal and planned to amass armies against him upon his return. Thus informed, Mordred had his court decamp to Salisbury Plain, an area he knew well and intended to use to give him an advantage.

Crowley had no way to contact the angel, but Aziraphale found them anyway. Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s pristine tent down, and set it up again at the new encampment. Then, having nothing else to do but wait for both Arthur and the angel to return, he had transformed to snake form, and slept for a few days, curled in the familiar furs and blankets on the bed, savoring the lingering scent of his angel.

When Aziraphale returned, his excitement was so palpable that the feel and taste of it snapped Crowley awake.

“Angel?”

“Hello, my darling.” Aziraphale discarded his boots and travelling cloak, quickly crossing to the bed and gathering Crowley to him, pressing rapid, longing kisses over his jaw and the scales atop his head, causing Crowley to hiss with lust and gently butt the angel away so he could talk to him before he forgot himself.

“I assume the trip to Avalon went well? Were the priestesses delighted by your Heavenly presence and promise of a magical barge?” 

“Very much.” The angel was practically vibrating with excitement and Crowley bit back the urge to hurry him along. “Morgan cast a spell of thanks - once the barge reaches Avalon, the curse (as she called it) that Heaven put upon me will lift for twelve hours. I will be able to touch you without pain.”

“Seems a very specific spell.” Crowley huffed a little, spiky at the thought of Aziraphale sharing personal details about their relationship with some witless sorceresses. “How’d that come about then?”

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s serpentine back thoughtfully.

“Well, they asked if there was anything I desired that they could give in return for my arranging for Arthur to be brought to them. I wish to touch you, to know you …. Unfortunately they are no match for Heaven so they could not undo what has been done. But they have power enough to lift it for a short time.”

Crowley raised his head, staring at the angel. “They could probably have given you anything, within reason.”

“Yes, well.” The angel got up and started re-arranging his scrolls, pretending Crowley had set his pavilion up wrong, and doing a terrible job of hiding the depth of emotion in his eyes. “Doubtless they could. But touching you is everything I want on this earth. Tea?”

“Sure, thanks, angel.”

As Crowley slid back into his human corporation, he found himself missing his less expressive serpent’s face. Aziraphale handed him the tea and took a seat a few feet away from him, but Crowley caught the way the angel slanted a glance at him every so often. The silence grew thicker and thicker until eventually Aziraphale apparently couldn’t bear it any more, rising from his chair and hovering his hands just above Crowley’s face.

“Just a moment. Please?”

Crowley hesitated, nodded. Aziraphale smiled, clasping his face and leaning in for a short, searing kiss, then drawing back with blood-red lips and tiny blisters on his palms.

“Next time I do that, I will be able to linger much longer.”

Crowley unthinkingly touched the tip of his finger to his own lower lip, as if to capture the traces of angel there. 

“Better make sure this battle goes as planned then.”

As it turned out, they did not have long to wait. The next morning brought an urgent communique to “those still loyal to the King” that he would reach Salisbury plain the following afternoon. Crowley immediately passed the news to Mordred - he needed him to mortally wound Arthur, and that meant he needed Mordred to start preparing for battle immediately.

Crowley had told the angel to stay away until the last possible moment, though whether he would obey was yet to be seen. Of course he could wield a sword, but human battle was bloodthirsty and messy and seemed an affront to his loveliness, at least in Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale would need to use his angelic touch to heal Arthur just enough for him to survive the journey to reached Avalon, but Crowley wanted him as far from the skirmish as possible.

Crowley had no desire to don armor unless needed, so he slid onto the battlefield in the shape of a black adder to keep an eye on proceedings. The battle got off to a terrible start, at least from Crowley’s point of view. Arthur and Mordred were caught in a stand-off, neither willing to strike, and their armies unwilling to raise swords before their leader did so. Crowley looked around from his low vantage point, seeing only a sea of metal armour and thistles. 

A glance up revealed the familiar face of Bowden. Crowley had observed the man leaping nearly a foot in the air at the sight of a harmless snake in the walled garden, while he’d been walking arm in arm with Mordred and whispering tempting ideas into his ear regarding the future of the nation. Dark joy rose in Crowley as he uncoiled, baring his fangs and hissing, rearing as if to strike. Bowden let out a terrified yell, raising his sword to strike Crowley down. As Crowley hastened away, he heard one of Arthur’s men yell “Mordred’s army draws against the rightful King! Attack!”

Being able to climb trees was a particularly useful skill, Crowley decided, as he twined himself high into the branches of a nearby oak, to watch the battle from safety. He was quite content to stay there, too, until he felt a thrum of celestial energy and spotted a familiar figure in white and gold armor, striding across the battlefield. Crowley dropped from the tree and was in human form before he hit the ground, quickly donning his own black armor and giving chase.

“Angel? What the hell are you doing?”

“Ah, Crowley.” Aziraphale turned and raised his visor. “I thought it best if I was in place, so to speak, ready to step in at the vital moment.”

“Angel … you can still get discorporated, you know.”

“I am aware, dear boy, but I am excellent at getting away with things, as well you know. Do not worry, Crowley. I will stay safe.”

“Damn right you will. I’m not leaving your side.”

“I hardly think that’s - “

But whatever he was going to say was lost in the fray as soldiers from both sides rushed towards each other, leaving them caught in the undertow. Every soldier that came near Aziraphale, regardless of whose livery they wore, fell to Crowley’s sword.

The battle raged on until nearly night time. Crowley had dragged Aziraphale to a copse, out of harm’s way, when he saw Arthur and Mordred striding towards each other, swords raised. 

“This is it.”

He muttered to the angel, resting his hand on Aziraphale’s back, hoping the thick armor and underthings would protect him from pain. Aziraphale turned to him, his voice rough.

“Crowley … I want this to work, so I can touch you. What if I … what if I fall for this? For wishing near-death on a man for my own ends? Will you … will you help me learn to navigate Hell?” 

“Heaven won’t make you fall for this. As far as they’re concerned, you’re the hero who swoops in at the last minute and sends Arthur to Avalon for healing. That’s not what scares you.”

Silence, despite the battle raging. Crowley wasn’t going to say it for him. He loved making the angel’s path easier, but not this. This the angel had to choose for himself with no prompting.

“You are right, Crowley. My true fear is that I’ll fall for wanting you so desperately.”

“It's not too late, angel. Not now, nor after the battle. Hell, even if we finally get to lie naked on that bed of yours. It will never be too late to change your mind. Need you to know that.”

“I do know that.” Aziraphale raised his gauntlet-clad hand and pressed it to the side of Crowley’s helmet. “I also know that I am willing to take the risk, if I only know you will still be mine no matter what happens after.”

“I cannot love you.”

“I am aware.”

“But I will always want you as close as I can have you. I will always delight in making your life better. I will always yearn to spend each night entwined with you, holding you and listening to your voice. I will always want to grasp you to me and never let you go.”

“Then let us do this.” Crowley could hear the smile in the angel’s words, although his helmet hid his mouth. “And let the fates fall where they may.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read so many things about Arthurian legend when writing this that they blurred together a bit in my mind. But while I cannot recall the sources, I do know that Arthur going to France to confront Lancelot, and fighting Mordred on his return was part of one of the Arthurian traditions. Likewise, the battle getting started because someone raised their sword to kill a snake features in one of the traditions, so of course I had to do it!
> 
> **Behind the scenes notes**
> 
> I really don't know what to do with this Crowley! He's different than any other Crowley I've written. But, like all my Crowleys, Aziraphale is the center of his world and his reason for being. I would love to write a companion piece (or a sequel) to explore more about the way his mind and emotions work.


	6. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For one long, beautiful moment, there is no before or after for Crowley. No Heaven, no Hell, and no fall. There is only Aziraphale, and the resolution of eons of longing. But nothing lasts forever, especially not this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NGL this chapter is about 80% smut.

Crowley stood on the shore and watched the pale barge vanish into the mists, the King lying on a pile of thick furs.

He turned to Aziraphale.

“Back to Salisbury plain, then? Unless you want me to miracle your tent back to Camelot, away from the carnage?”

“That would be appreciated, thank you my dear.”

Aziraphale, still in his armor, turned and looked up at Crowley. “But first I must see if I can heal anyone else on the battlefield. I have to, Crowley. I couldn’t rest if I did not …”

Crowley knew. And he knew that even if the spell worked, it would be hard to appreciate holding Aziraphale, if the angel was wracked with guilt about leaving people to suffer. And so, he miracled them back to the field of battle, where Aziraphale healed where he could, and Crowley swiftly dispatched those who were too far gone to save.

As soon as they were finished, Crowley snapped his fingers and took them back to Camelot, tent and all. As they stood outside the pavilion, Crowley paused with his hand on the tent flap.

“Look.” He gestured at the ground, where the thistles had become heavensbloom once more. Aziraphale crouched down and ran his fingertip gently over the light blue petals.

“Could this mean …?”

Standing, he removed Crowley’s helmet, then his own, getting as close as the armor would allow, and pressing a reverent kiss to Crowley’s mouth. Time became a slow river flowing past them as Crowley kissed back, over and over, letting himself taste the angel’s mouth, tongue slipping between those plush lips to explore further. When he reluctantly drew back, Aziraphale was smiling up at him in the gathering dusk. His lips were as pale and perfect as ever, with no hint of blisters.

Eons of craving broke in Crowley like a storm, as he pulled Aziraphale into the tent and snapped away their armour, leaving them both in their underthings. Then they were kissing again, devouring kisses that left them both panting, hands fisted in each other’s hair as their mouths met in hard, punishing clashes that left them crying out against each other.

As soon as they reached the bed, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, leaving them both naked. Then his hands were on Crowley’s hips, pulling the demon flush against him.

“Satan’s sake, you’re beautiful,” Crowley growled as he pressed Aziraphale down onto the bed, grasping his thighs and pushing them apart so he could lie between them, hips grinding helplessly at the feel of Aziraphale naked beneath him. When the angel pulled him into a searing kiss, Crowley nipped Aziraphale’s lower lip, laving his tongue over the droplets of blood. Aziraphale kissed back with equal ferocity, nails leaving trails of fire down Crowley’s back as he grasped at him.

“Crowley,” he pleaded in the demon’s ear. “I want you, have wanted you, for so long. Will you take me, my love?”

“Aziraphale.” It sounded as desperate, almost broken, as Crowley felt. “You can’t just ask me things like that.”

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale could barely stop kissing Crowley long enough to speak, gasping the words out in between sucking at his tongue and biting his lower lip. “Surely of all our long lives, now is the time to speak plain?” 

And here he did pause, long enough to press his mouth over and over to Crowley’s throat until Crowley groaned and pushed his hips harder against the angel, hands sliding around to squeeze his backside unashamedly. The sight of Aziraphale flushed and panting, looking up at Crowley as if he wanted as much of him as he could possibly get, was the closest thing to rightness Crowley had felt in his long life. 

“Yes.” He breathed seductively against Aziraphale’s ear. “I’ll do anything you want, angel.”

There was a sudden shiver of a miracle, and then Crowley was treated to the glorious sight of Aziraphale reaching down to impatiently press one, then two, miracle-slick fingers into himself, groaning loudly. Crowley watched, entranced, his own hips jerking slightly in response to the sight. The urge to push into Aziraphale and claim ownership of him, was nearly overwhelming. Instead, he leaned down to nip inside Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Not your first time doing this to yourself, is it?”

“Not at all.” Aziraphale paused, a shaky groan escaping his lips as his fingers moved faster. “When … oh … when wanting you got too much, I would … pretend it was you, imagine your fingers, or your cock, buried in me ….”

That was it. Any idea of self control Crowley had, was gone. Grabbing Aziraphale’s thigh, he pushed it back to open him wider, then without hesitation ran his tongue around the angel’s entrance, where his own fingers were still buried, exploring the tight, stretched rim. Crowley’s hands were alive with the desire to explore, mapping out every hollow and curve of Aziraphale’s body as his tongue worked.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, unguarded, as he repositioned himself to lie atop the angel. Aziraphale gazed up at him tenderly.

“So are you, Crowley. Oh, I want you, I ache with it …”

Crowley shuddered. It was almost impossible to comprehend that he was the reason the angel was already half-undone, lips parted on a gasp, fingers still curling deep inside himself 

“Draw your fingers back, then.” He muttered in Aziraphale’s ear. “It’s my turn.”

Aziraphale moaned loudly at the words - Crowley’s half-addled brain had the sense to file that away for later - then drew his fingers back, immediately wrapping them around Crowley’s cock instead, exploring every inch of it. Crowley shuddered and grabbed the angel’s wrist.

“I’m not going to last if you keep doing that ….”

When Aziraphale paused, Crowley couldn’t resist reaching down to dip his fingers inside the angel, just to feel the heat and the way his insides fluttered. Shaking, suddenly very aware that in that moment he had everything he’d ever wanted, Crowley carefully guided the tip of his cock to Aziraphale’s entrance, and slid just inside him, moaning raggedly. 

“Yes, my love.” Aziraphale’s breath was hot against his ear. “More, please, I want all of you.”

Crowley forced his disobedient corporation to still for a moment. His body was begging for more, faster, harder, to grasp and bite and possess in every way. But some deeper part of him wanted the moment to last, to savour every sensation, every shifting colour in Aziraphale’s eyes as he looked up at Crowley with a soft smile.

“My love,” he said quietly, thumb rubbing Crowley’s cheekbone. “You are like fire on a cold night. Nothing has ever moved me like you do.”

Crowley closed his eyes for a long moment, letting the words wash over him, bathing in the warmth of Aziraphale’s body and the way he hooked his heel around the back of Crowley’s thigh. When Aziraphale groaned and arched his back, Crowley wrapped both arms around him, burying his face against Aziraphale’s neck and murmuring low words of praise as he slid gradually deeper, and deeper still, until he was pressed as tight inside the angel as he could be.

“Crowley, oh. Oh.” Aziraphale writhed under him, his movements unstructured as he rocked his hips and rubbed his legs against Crowley’s hips, fisting one hand in the sheets, the other grasping Crowley’s shoulder as if to anchor himself. Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, one hand cupping the back of the angel’s neck, the other reaching down to clutch at his hip. 

Aziraphale kept watching Crowley with that wonder-struck gaze as Crowley rocked his hips forward slowly. Crowley felt like he was spooling apart, losing control of his body and heart, because Aziraphale was here, he was his, and no matter what else happened in their long lives, Crowley would always know what it was to be joined with Aziraphale. He would always remember the way the angel looked up at him, forehead damp with sweat, curls in disarray, smiling adoringly at Crowley between gasps and moans. He would sear into his memory the sight of Aziraphale exploring Crowley’s face and throat with his fingers, letting them linger on Crowley’s lips, on his pulse, reaching down and stroking over his heart. 

“I don’t want this to end,” he told Crowley softly.

“I know.” Crowley looped his arm under Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him closer, hips pressing forward in long, slow thrusts that had the angel trembling as soft, almost surprised, cries fell from his lips at the end of each push. “We have all night, angel.”

Aziraphale buried his fingers in Crowley’s hair, the other hand tracing the ridges of his spine and the sharp bones of his hips. On Crowley’s next movement, he closed his eyes tight and Crowley saw tears leaking from his eyes.

“How will we ever live without this, when tonight is over?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley nuzzled his face against the angel’s cheek, fingers splaying possessively over his hip. “We’ll survive more easily, having the memory of this to strengthen us. Now we know, beyond doubt or reason, that we were made to be together.”

“Made?” Aziraphale whispered, stroking the back of Crowley’s neck. Crowley leaned down and kissed the tears from Aziraphale’s cheeks, tongue tasting the salt there.

“Made. Does it disturb you that I think so? It’s probably heresy.”

Aziraphale moaned and closed his eyes, head tipping back. “Then let me be a heretic. Show me what we were made to do.”

Crowley growled low in his ear, “You were made for this.” He punctuated his words with a harder thrust, delighting in the way it made Aziraphale grab at his back and push his hips towards Crowley’s. “You were made for me to hold and possess and pleasure until you forget everything but how I make you feel.”

He was mouthing over Aziraphale’s neck as he spoke, pressing the words against his throat like brands. His restless hands couldn’t stop pressing and squeezing against every available inch of Aziraphale’s body, as if he could memorise the angel’s body through his own palms. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered into the quiet air, the soft words mingling with the sound of Crowley’s moans and grunts of pleasure. The words made him move harder, holding the angel tight against him as he rocked his hips in a possessive rhythm, each thrust ending in a powerful shove that made Aziraphale cry out, insides fluttering and clenching. 

“You’re mine,” he groaned, gazing into the angel’s eyes. 

Aziraphale gave him a quick, breathless, smile, and Crowley knew he understood. Possession, need, the longing to take and own and lavish with pleasure - those things were his language, and Aziraphale spoke it perfectly. 

When Crowley snapped his hips forward hard, Aziraphale gasped and pushed down to meet him, one arm tight around his waist as if to keep Crowley inside him, the other resting on his cheek as he gazed into Crowely’s eyes, their foreheads pressed together. 

“Crowley …. show me what it means to be yours.” The angel’s words were broken and wanting, gasped out between long moans. 

Crowley’s now-forked tongue could taste the sincerity in the words. And under it, something far more intoxicating - Aziraphale was sweet with longing, the taste cresting every time Crowley pinned him to the bed with another hard thrust. Closing his eyes tight, burying his head against Aziraphale’s chest, he let go, letting the scales spill over his wrists and hips and throat, teeth becoming fangs that scraped Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“Bite me,” Aziraphale told him firmly. “I want you to.”

Crowley groaned, sinking his teeth into the flesh of Aziraphale’s chest. The angel cupped his hand behind Crowley’s head, holding him there as Crowley drew back enough to rub his tongue over the rivulets of blood. Aziraphale was undone, panting and writhing beneath him, kissing the scales on Crowley’s shoulder and moaning against them. 

Overcome, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hips in both hands, holding him down and shoving into him, half-crazed with lust. Aziraphale pulled him into a messy kiss, gasping against Crowley’s open mouth as Crowley sobbed with pleasure, whimpering at the feel of Aziraphale so hot and tight around his cock. Aziraphale was kissing him over and over, whole body jerking and shaking as his hips stuttered.

“Crowley I can’t, I can’t, I’m going to ….”

Crowley could taste the lust rolling off the angel in waves. He quickly slipped his hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Aziraphale’s shaft, finding it hot and full. Aziraphale arched so hard at the contact that Crowley had to pin him down more firmly, which elicited a beautiful cry of joy. 

Crowley snarled softly, giving several rough, possessive pulls, delighting in the way the angel grabbed at his wrist, begging for more. When his thumb brushed the already-wet head, it was clearly too much for Aziraphale, and he came suddenly, all but thrashing underneath Crowley and wailing the demon’s name. 

Crowley had barely a second to wonder at being allowed to witness such a beautiful act, before the urge to make Aziraphale his became too great and all he could do was tighten his hold on the angel hips and buck into him relentlessly hard, groaning at the feel of the angel stretching around him.

“That’s it, my love,” Aziraphale whispered in his ear, smoothing his damp hair back from his forehead. “Let go, let me feel you. You’re so beautiful, I love how possessive you are, I adore your beautiful scales and your sharp teeth and your exquisite eyes. Make me yours.”

Hearing such things as he’d never even dared to dream was too much, and before he could form a coherent thought, Crowley was coming deep inside the angel, hips snapping on every pulse, holding Aziraphale down and shouting his name helplessly.

Collapsing on top of Aziraphale, panting, still shuddering as aftershocks rocked him, Crowley held the angel bruisingly tight, head buried against his chest. His moans of pleasure subsided into sighs of pain as the reality dawned that after this night it could be centuries, eons, past the end of the world, before they could touch again.

“I know.” Aziraphale told him, stroking his hair slowly. “It hurts so much.”

Crowley shifted position and pressed a long kiss right over Aziraphale’s heart, then moved up further to capture his mouth in a languid, sensual kiss.

“We are hours yet from dawn.” Aziraphale told him when he drew back. “Let us enjoy every moment of it, my love.”

“I cannot … it’s not that I don’t want to love you, Aziraphale.”

“I know. What difference does a human word make, when I’ve felt you inside my very soul? When I can look at you and see the stars you made? When I trust you so deeply that you could do anything to me and I would cling to you and beg for more?”

Crowley leaned down and nuzzled the angel’s cheek. He could show him, he realised. He could show love through his touch, regardless of whether he could feel it. When his fingers found their way between Aziraphale’s thighs and slowly opened him again, the angel gasped in delight and reached for Crowley’s hips, pulling him closer. As he slid into the angel for a second time, Crowley cradled Aziraphale in his arms, moving slow and careful now, pressing worshipful kisses to every inch of his skin, hands stroking and soothing his chest and sides.

“Crowley …” Aziraphale cupped the demon’s face in both hands, gazing up at him as their bodies writhed together, both of them gasping and panting frantically. “You are perfect, to me.” 

He lay his hand flat on Crowley’s chest, giving him a look of such love that Crowley hardly knew how to respond. He smiled back, letting his fingertips drift gently over the angel’s lips. For that moment there was no before, no after, and no fall. There was only Aziraphale warm and pliant in his arms, gazing at Crowley like he, not God, was the reason Aziraphale existed.

When dawn came, they were still wrapped around each other. Crowley was drunk on the feel of Aziraphale so swollen and hot around his cock, and the soft, punched-out sounds of pleasure he made with every movement. He was doing that. Aziraphale was making those sounds, writhing and biting his lip and damp with sweat, because of Crowley.

As the air inside the pavilion grew warmer from the early morning light on its sides, Aziraphale whispered his name brokenly and slowly pushed Crowley back with tender hands on his hips, fingers digging in as if to keep him even as he eased the demon away from his body. Crowley glanced down, hissing air through his teeth at the sight of the red patches on Aziraphale’s stomach and inner thighs. 

“Angel …”

Aziraphale shook his head quickly.

“I wanted to be with you until the last possible moment.” He sat up on the bed, gathering several furs around himself, but leaving plenty for Crowley. “I shall probably be recalled to Heaven for instructions soon. Will you stay with me till then?”

Crowley shuffled up the bed to sit beside him, not quite touching, wrapping himself in furs and miracling them both some tea.

“What now, angel?”

Aziraphale gave him a tired smile.

“Now we get back to business as usual, and hold this night close, and secret.”

Crowley nodded, biting his tongue against the urge to rage at the injustice of it all, swear to fix it even if he had to turn a few archangels inside out.

“I know it’s not enough,” Aziraphale said apologetically.

“Don’t say that.” Crowley tentatively rested a hand on the thick layers of fur that covered Aziraphale’s shoulder, then relaxed a bit when Aziraphale didn’t flinch away. “It was everything.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly and nodded. Then he stiffened, as if hearing a sound only he could hear.

“I have to go,” he said, giving Crowley a look of worry.

“I know. We both have jobs to do.”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to reach out. Instead, he got up and got dressed. When he had finished straightening his tunic and rearranging his cloak multiple times, he paused and regarded Crowley sadly. Crowley’s heart pinched, struggling to bear the weight of the angel’s grief.

“I will return for my things later. Best not to keep Gabriel waiting.” He stepped towards Crowley then, removing his glove and reaching for Crowley’s face. Crowley instinctively grabbed his wrist to stop him, then let go, knowing the touch would hurt. 

“Aziraphale …” It came out on a low breath.

“Just for a moment,” the angel said, and how could Crowley deny him? 

Aziraphale closed the distance between them, looking longingly into Crowley’s eyes as he pressed his hand to Crowley’s cheek, leaning up to kiss him slowly, lingering as Crowley kissed back, tongue slowly tasting the love and sadness in the air. 

Aziraphale drew back, lips red and cracked, his palm looking hot and sore. He quickly covered his hand by putting on his gloves. He caught Crowley’s worried glance at his lips, and smiled a little.

“It will fade before I arrive. Besides, I have only to tell them it’s the effect of the Wessex weather on my human corporation. They are remarkably stupid about such things.”

There was a pause. The moment had to end, and they both knew it.

“Goodbye, Crowley.” It was soft and loving. “See you in another century, perhaps.”

“Course you will, angel.”

Crowley stood staring at the tent flap long after Aziraphale left. The pavilion still felt bright with his presence, and his unique taste lingered on the air. For a moment, Crowley considered crawling back into the bed, questing after any lingering warmth from their bodies, letting himself drown for a moment in the memory of holding Aziraphale. But that way lay madness. He could not spend the next century or the next millennia pining. He would take every last recollection of Aziraphale, of the sounds he made, the scent and taste of him, and lock them deep in his heart where only he would ever see them. 

On his way out of the pavilion, Crowley noticed the spray of heavensbloom by the entrance, now turned to spiky purple thistles. With a frustrated noise, Crowley picked up the spray in his hand and crushed it, letting the blood soak into the blooms, and drip from between his fingers. 

When he stepped out into the crisp dawn, he was stepping into a new world. One in which Aziraphale craved his touch. One in which he was allowed to coil around the angel in snake form, and to take human form to enter him and bring him pleasure. Dropping the bloodied thistles on the ground, Crowley’s lips curled in a snarl. There was more magic in the world than he’d realised, and he intended to use it. Aziraphale wanted him. That was all the permission Crowley needed to do anything necessary to make Aziraphale his once more.

With hope blooming in his heart alongside the pain, Crowley clutched the memory of Aziraphale close, and strode across the fields towards the gateway to Avalon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you so much for reading ★
> 
> Comments are fuel for hungry authors - let me know what you think, and what you loved (when several people tell me they love a Thing, I sometimes write it into future fics so don't be shy!)
> 
> **Behind The Scenes Notes**
> 
> What can I tell you? Posting smut always makes me nearly discorporate myself, but I'm getting more at ease thanks to Cheeky Crowley from Aurency, who was All Smut All The Time.
> 
> I don't usually write open endings, so this was a real departure for me. But, as I wrote it as a gift for someone who is Queen of Bittersweet Open Endings, I thought "if not now, then when!" Of course the open end has me wanting to write a sequel, but that's not a bad thing ;-)
> 
> **What are you in the mood for now?**
> 
> Victorian AU featuring a human Aziraphale, fallen Guardian angel Crowley, and lots of fluff, romance, sex, and some stunning collaborative art? Go check out [Aurency](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182472)
> 
> Delicious pining with a happy ending, featuring an account of Crowley's fall and some true!form sex? Try [The Heart Asks Pleasure First](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23352145).
> 
> More true!form deliciousness, featuring a cosmic meet-cute between a star-creating Throne and a gentle Principality? Check out [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192903).
> 
> Sweet post-canon Tadfield adventure, featuring an ensemble cast, a little magical summoning, Tracy finding her place in the world, and Crowley being good with kids? Try [Darksome Night and Shining Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579987).
> 
> A little gentle emotional hurt/comfort, featuring a loving Aziraphale helping Crowley through his trauma from the burning bookshop, and guest appearances from Madam Tracy and Anathema? [In These Flames](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623877) could be just right for you.
> 
> In the mood for something longer, featuring a long slow burn, stolen kisses, and so much angst and fluff and sweetness you might need to watch your blood sugar? Dive into [All The Seasons Of My Heart.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640552)
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://zadusk.tumblr.com) \- I'm always up for talking about Good Omens!


End file.
